


Out of This Hunting Ground

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [17]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-14 20:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Something is wrong with Eames, with them. Arthur takes care of it the only way he knows how.Arthur coasts in a half-sleep state, waiting for his lover to come back and keep him warm. But the minutes roll by, past the time that Eames would have returned if everything is as it should be.





	1. Did We Get Lost In It?

**Author's Note:**

> Story begins during the Christmas visit with Arthur’s parents and continues through the events of You Can Close Your Eyes (But That’s Not Gonna Take Away the View)

December

Seattle, USA

 

 

Eames isn’t in bed when Arthur wakes. That’s not so weird, despite the fact that it’s still the middle of the night and dark all over. Probably just a trip to the bathroom, or a perimeter check, and dreamsharers are chronic insomniacs besides. So Arthur coasts in a half-sleep state, waiting for his lover to come back and keep him warm.

But the minutes roll by, past the time that Eames would have returned if everything is as it should be.

Wide awake now, Arthur gets out of bed and pulls on his jeans and a tee shirt, moving silently and easily through the dark. He goes to the closet, slides the left door open, and eases up the false floorboard just inside the closet to retrieve the pistol and suppressor he first hid there years ago.

The suppressor makes it uncomfortable to tuck the pistol in the back of his waistband, but even he has qualms about walking through his parents’ house with a gun in his hand.

The house is lost in shadows but for the colorful glow of Christmas lights in the den. Arthur picks up the tones of quiet conversation and heads in that direction. He quickly recognizes the voices as belonging to Eames and his father, presumably having a conversation. No indications of distress—no home invasion or domestic argument at play.

Arthur’s tense alertness settles down. Curiosity takes its place. He can’t think of any reason why Eames would seek out his father’s company in the middle of the night.

He pauses just short of the entryway of the den, out of sight and hidden in the dark. He can’t see either of the men inside the room—they must be standing near the Christmas tree in front of the window—but he can hear Eames clearly enough.

“—to me. It’s really great being here. Sharing this with you all.”

Arthur feels a decidedly warm and fuzzy sensation fill his heart—not that he’ll ever share that particular cliché out loud, but the soft happiness is there, nonetheless. This visit home has been everything he’d wanted, and plenty more that he hadn’t dare hope for until it was being handed to him with a twinkle in his father’s eyes and the lingering feel of Eames’s kiss on his lips.

Smiling now, Arthur is about to walk in and join his two favorite men when he catches his father’s next words.

“Then why do you look like a man about to run for the hills?”

Arthur goes still, one foot still poised to move into the lighted room. Waiting for Eames’s response. Wondering what fears are apparently clear to see when he’s not the one looking.

“What? No—I don’t—”

“Come on, none of that. You’ve been doing so well. Don’t flail out now.”

Arthur hangs on the ensuing silence, not moving, not even breathing though his heart beats in double-time. A lifetime of insecurities and doubt creep into the forefront of his mind, and by the time Eames starts talking again Arthur’s already had dozens of thoughts fly through his head, most of them of the not-good variety.

“Look. Sir…”

The hesitation in Eames’s response withers the happy warmth Arthur was feeling before. Everything had been going so well. Or so he thought. They’re happy, aren’t they? Why isn’t Eames happy like he is?

“I love your son, yeah? More than I understand, I love him.”

Which is good. But Arthur can hear the prevarication in Eames’s words, the reluctant apology in his tone. And apparently so can his dad, or maybe the expression on Eames’s face is even worse than he imagines, because Mason’s skepticism comes across clearly in one word.

“But?”

Arthur’s hands clench into fists at his sides.

“I just…”

He waits—anxiously, hopelessly, he waits—but Eames falls silent once again. Arthur decides he doesn’t want to hear anymore. This is… this is enough. More than enough. It’s time to leave before Eames detects his presence. Because that’s one confrontation that Arthur is determined to never have.

He backs away silently, retraces his steps back to the guest bedroom and under the now-cold blankets.

He tries very hard not to think.

Maybe it’s cowardly… fuck, of course it is. But if Eames is feeling doubts about their relationship, Arthur would rather stay ignorant of them. Would rather be willfully oblivious to any threats to the cloud of bliss he’s been floating in these past few months. After years of wanting, pining, needing, he finally has happiness with Eames. He deserves that. He’s earned that. Fuck if he’s going to let half of an overheard conversation ruin things.

And they _are_ happy, damnit. He knows Eames isn’t lying or playing games with him. What they have is real, and Arthur has every intention of holding on to it.

He refuses to lose Eames. No matter what.

So he lays there in the dark, thoughts and feelings carefully blank, until Eames slips back into bed. Arthur keeps his eyes closed, feigning sleep when Eames curls up against his side and slowly drifts off.

This might be nothing. Just nerves. Second-thoughts brought on by meeting Arthur’s parents and the permanency suggested by this visit. Nothing to worry about when all is said and done.

It’s what Arthur needs to believe. Because anything else is unbearable.

 

* * *

 

April

Madrid, Spain

 

 

Living in denial turns out to be easier than Arthur expects. Eames has been nothing but passionate and attentive since Christmas, giving no indication of having any doubts about their relationship, and so Arthur allows himself to relax.

Besides, every new relationship is prone to a little insecurity, or so he tells himself. And those voices of suspicion and discontent are easily silenced every time Eames pulls Arthur in for a kiss or insists that the two of them stroll hand-in-hand through the local farmers market wearing matching flowers on their lapels.

Not to mention, the sex is even better than ever.

The love between them is real, Arthur believes that. It’s real and vibrant and everything he’d longed for during those cold, lonely years. So it’s easy enough to tune out the occasional worry and lingering fear.

That is, until all of this newfound happiness begins to crumble apart in his hands.

It begins with vacant stares and anxious fidgeting, in those times when Eames believes himself alone and unobserved. He’s clearly preoccupied but claims nothing of the sort when Arthur asks what’s on his mind.

Which is fine, Arthur thinks. Eames’s mind is like the ocean, with hidden currents and swirling eddies constantly moving beneath the rippling surface. It’s what makes him so extraordinary at dreamshare, that ability to think in so many directions at once. Arthur understands that there are times when Eames’s thoughts flow to depths that Arthur can’t follow, so a little distraction is nothing to be concerned about.

He doesn’t truly begin to worry until Eames’s preoccupation gives way to restlessness. Working longer hours than usual, filling his downtime with early morning trips to the nearest gym or aimless walks through town. Sometimes he takes Arthur with him. Sometimes he insists on going alone.

Denial becomes less of an option with each day that passes.

For one heart-stopping week, Arthur considers the possibility that Eames has found someone else. But Eames still reaches for him at every available opportunity, still drives Arthur crazy with demanding kisses and filthy whispers, so infidelity can’t be the reason.

He refuses to believe that’s the reason.

Unfortunately, with that assurance comes a new concern. Eames isn’t seeing another man, and nothing on Arthur’s ever-vigilant radar has pinged as an external threat. Nothing related to their work, for once, registers as even an annoyance that needs addressing.

Which means, whatever the problem is, it’s something internal. Something within the microcosm of him and Eames is causing this disturbance, and that’s a situation Arthur isn’t sure how to deal with. Not with Eames continually pretending that nothing is wrong. Not with Eames smiling and laughing as if Arthur can’t see the deflection in his eyes like a flashing _keep out_ sign.

And yet, Eames still holds him at night, in bed. Some nights, almost desperately, in fact. So Arthur clings back and memorizes the feel of Eames, warm and weighty against his side.

 

 

Arthur knows the tension has been building in Eames, knows they’ve been working towards a confrontation of some sort despite the glib assurances otherwise. Yet he’s still caught unprepared when it finally happens.

The day starts off unremarkable from any other day but no less enjoyable for its normalcy. His hopes for morning sex don’t pan out when Eames refuses to pull his head out from under his pillow, but Eames makes up for that with some playful yet heated kisses when he “helps” Arthur dry off after a shower.

It’s a rare, idle day for them both, coming fresh off of a job with no immediate plans following. Arthur hates feeling like he’s sitting around, waiting for the day to end—too many bad memories there—but he’s trying to indulge Eames’s penchant for unstructured days of leisure. And he has to admit that taking some time off from his habitual schedule of constant productivity is kind of nice. Just so long as he has Eames to help fill the hours of inactivity, at least.

In a discomforting role reversal, Eames turns out to be the edgy one that day, restlessly moving from one room to another. It’s not a big apartment, so the shiftiness is obvious and telling. But Arthur says nothing.

He can’t decide what he’s afraid of more—that Eames will lie to his face once more and claim nothing is wrong, or that Eames will finally reveal this secret that’s slowly breaking him down.

All day, Arthur feels like he’s holding an unpinned grenade. He’s exhausted by the time they sit down for dinner, so he lets Eames babble away about some new play coming out that summer.

It’s a good act, for sure. But Eames’s forges have never fooled Arthur for long, and Arthur just nods and responds at the appropriate times.

The forced cheerfulness strains both of their composures, so he takes over the post-meal cleanup and shoos Eames out of the kitchen. It’s weak, but he needs a moment to regroup before continuing the charade.

By the time the dishes are washed and the leftovers are put away, Arthur’s breathing is steady again. He goes out to join Eames in the living room and finds him on the couch, lost in thought.

Arthur moves slowly to join him, but Eames still jerks, startled, when he realizes he’s no longer alone. “You’re twitchy today. You okay?”

Eames throws up a practiced smile and slides his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Yeah, love, I’m all good. Just a bit restless, is all. Guess I’m not used to all this free time,” he says lightly. “My boyfriend’s a bit of a slave driver, keeps me hopping.”

Arthur offers his own false smile and wills himself to just take Eames at his word, to let this be nothing. He leans in against Eames’s chest, seeking the familiar comfort of touch. “I think I can help with that restless energy,” he says, and puts a hand out towards Eames’s belt.

It’s meant to be a flirty, teasing gesture. Something to pull them back from the precipice they’ve been skirting. Something they’ve done to and for each other innumerable times, now.

But Eames flinches away from Arthur’s touch.

Arthur freezes, his instinct to protect at war with the sudden, furious screaming inside his head. He slowly lowers his hand down to his own lap and fights to keep his voice level. “Sure nothing is wrong?”

He can’t tell if the pleading, if the demand come through in his tone. _Just tell me_ , he wants to say. One last chance at doing this right, in a way that might not shatter them both when all is said and done.

But Eames just shakes his head and dials up the pout on his lips.

Arthur—with effort, sadly, because it’s a very compelling pout—keeps his focus locked on Eames’s eyes, but the other man dodges his gaze in favor of looking at Arthur’s shirtfront as he fondles the top buttons.

“Nothing at all,” Eames says, “Like you said, just a little jumpy today.” Then he kisses the side of Arthur’s mouth, where he can feel the edges of a frown developing. “Now, where were we?”

The response Arthur intends to make is lost in another kiss, this one full-on and more distracting. Arthur can’t help but kiss back—the allure of Eames’s mouth is not something that just fades away after a year—even though his mind continues to race with unwanted thoughts.

After a few passes of that clever, clever tongue, Arthur pulls back. Again, with effort. “Eames—”

“Hush, you. I’m busy.”

This time the kiss is wanton, eager, and consuming. There’s an almost frantic quality in the way Eames grips his side, fingers biting and clawing to drag Arthur closer. And as Arthur’s mind begins to haze, he realizes Eames is no longer just trying to shut him up. Instead, it’s like Eames is trying to drown himself in Arthur, like a man guzzling water in anticipation of a drought.

His own hands turn desperate, needy, and Arthur allows himself to shut down his brain for the rest of the night, to just feel.

 


	2. I Know His Lips Are Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the last two chapters of _You Can Close Your Eyes (But That's Not Gonna Take Away the View)_. I'm assuming you've all read it, or else some things might not make sense.

June

Belfast, Ireland

 

 

“You knew he was going to jack us.”

Arthur concentrates on the road despite feeling Eames’s eyes on him like razors, peeling the skin from his body. It makes him tense, hackles rising in a primal effort to ward off forthcoming trouble. But he knows there’s no avoiding this. He’d made sure of that.

Even still, Eames’s assertion is a clear shot across the bow, and he has to work to keep his demeanor steady. “I _suspected_ he might.”

“We should have just bagged the job.”

And he knows Eames is going to push for an explanation, but there’s still a small part of Arthur that hopes to dodge this, that Eames will trust him enough to back down. Best-case scenario—they’ll fight about this, maybe even fight a lot about it. Worst-case, on the other hand… “I wasn’t sure. You’re always saying I’m paranoid. No sense getting hysterical over supposition.”

“But sense enough to hire a hitman.” Eames’s voice all but bleeds sarcasm. “On supposition.”

“I keep Noah on retainer,” he clarifies on reflex, that age-old impulse to tell Eames things he wouldn’t bother sharing with anyone else, only he wishes he could call back the words when Eames’s ensuing laugh skates across his nerves.

“Jesus, you’re not even joking.” Eames shifts nervously in his seat and looks at his watch. “You going to call it in?”

Arthur knows what he’s getting at, of course. Aidan Mitchell, Gibson’s secret son and the unwitting catalyst for Arthur’s plan. He checks the time on the dash clock and notes that he still has plenty of time to call Noah off. “When we’re clear.”

“We’ve got this, Arthur,” Eames snaps, voice as sharp as Arthur has ever heard it. “Call it in.”

He chances a look across the car, and what he sees causes that bit of hope to shrivel into ash. Every line of Eames’s body conveys not just his anger—of which there’s clearly plenty—but also wariness and suspicion. It’s not a big vehicle, yet Eames has maneuvered himself to put as much of that small space between them as possible.

Arthur swallows hard, dragging his eyes back to the road. He pulls out his phone and mechanically hits redial.

The call picks up on the first ring, as usual, but the line remains silent.

“Noah,” Arthur is deliberate in using the man’s name, both of them knowing he would only do so if his status was secure.

_“Here. Guessing you’re all good, then?”_

“Yeah, we’re clear. Proceed as scheduled,” he adds, overly aware of Eames listening in.

_“Copy that. I’ll notify you when it’s done.”_

Arthur makes some noise of acknowledgement and hurries to get off the phone, distracted by the drumming of Eames’s fingers on the center console. It’s not a typical gesture for him—Eames has no patience for obvious tells—and each rhythmic _tap-tap tap-tap_ causes Arthur’s gut to wind tighter and tighter.

His discomfort probably becomes apparent because Eames ceases the drumming and sits upright, eyes locking forward in a sightless stare. “And what’s on the schedule, then?”

From Eames’s tone—measured, restrained, impersonal—Arthur knows this isn’t going to be a best-case scenario. This is actually going to be very, very bad.

Grief and frustration hits him like a sledgehammer, and it takes all of his concentration to avoid doubling over in despair. Yes, he had planned for this, prepared. But nothing could have made him ready for this actual moment. _Just breathe_ , he tells himself, _breathe through the pain._

With his vision going dangerously hazy around the edges, Arthur takes the turn for Belfast International and draws on professional habits to answer Eames’s questions. “Gibson is a threat. The fear of reprisal will hold him for a short while, but his pride will force him to act eventually.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. Eames lives in the same world as he does, even if they’ve internalized it differently. Nevertheless, he can’t help but hear the accusation in Eames’s response.

“So your hitman is going to pay him a visit.”

“It’s necessary. You know that.” _Please know that._

Eames goes quiet, considering his words or arguing silently for all that Arthur can tell. Eames has closed himself off, reverting to the apathetic disdain that once dominated their interactions, back before they became more than occasional colleagues. Before Eames loved him.

It’s a reminder he could have lived without.

“Why the kid?”

Arthur recites his assessment of Gibson’s leverage points. He takes solace in the business frame of mind, speaking automatically while he devotes his immediate focus to maneuvering the car through airport parking. “The son is the only thing he holds sacred,” he concludes.

Another beat of silence, and then…

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

Arthur allows himself one last glance. He doesn’t know what to say that would take the betrayal off of Eames’s face, so he just parks the car and releases his seatbelt. “Let’s go.”

It takes Eames an extra beat to catch up. By then, Arthur has the trunk open and is sorting through the various contingency supplies stashed away. It provides an excellent excuse to avoid eye contact as Eames closes in, aggression boiling off of him like steam.

“Hell, Arthur, if you’re going to kill Gibson anyway, why not just lead with that? We could have fought our way out.”

Arthur can’t resist a sharp look of his own. “Too risky. And keep your voice down.” He didn’t go through all of this just to draw unwanted attention _now_ of all times.

He leaves Eames to fume in silence while he shuffles through the assorted passports, his own thoughts racing. This is it, the time when he needs to make some decisions. And nothing can ever be the same again.

His fingers linger a moment on a particular set of passports, belonging to a married couple from Belgium on their way home from vacation. He drops those back into the trunk and settles on two IDs attached to separate flights departing within the hour.

Into the trunk go their weapons, the PASIV, and other odds and ends that might complicate their egress. Arthur can’t help but give a second glance to the twin switchblades tossed in with everything. He’ll make sure the knives are returned to Eames, but he feels bereft without its reassuring weight.

They part ways before going through security, and Arthur has to wonder whether or not Eames will be waiting for him on the other side—either having boarded without waiting to say goodbye, or else… well, that’s not something he really wants to think about. Surely just a few more minutes isn’t too much to ask for, not even for someone like him.

Arthur walks faster.

He hurries to the departure gate for Eames’s flight, half-convinced he’ll be too late. But when he gets there, he sees the gate still closed and no sign of Eames. Panic wants to set in, so he distracts himself with his phone, setting up arrangements for the rental car to be picked up and their belongings shipped to his post office box in Queens.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before the familiar shape and stride of Eames crosses into his peripheral vision, standing close enough to catch hints of his own cologne on Eames’s skin.

Arthur doesn’t look up from his phone. He can’t look at Eames. If he does, something inside of him will break. And he can’t let that happen—not yet. Not until he gets Eames on that plane.

“This is you,” Arthur tilts his head towards the gate even as his fingers continue to tap busily over his phone. “I’ll be a few hours behind you, coming from Orlando. You’ve got the coordinates to the safe house in New York. I’ve texted you the security code.”

Eames sighs. “Arthur, wait.”

Instead, Arthur talks faster. He needs to wind this up. Needs to get Eames out of there. “I’ve made arrangements. By the time you’re through customs, the flight manifest and airline records will have been altered. You’ll be home free.”

“Stop it,” Eames snaps, and Arthur buries the instinct to cringe before it can’t surface. “Look at me.”

And how he wishes he could. He wants an image to hold in his mind, to clear out the memory of accusatory stares. But he can’t. He _can’t_. “We don’t have time for this,” he says instead, putting away his phone and quickly turning to leave. “We’ll meet—”

“Arthur, stop.”

The hand on his elbow is unyielding, hard fingers sinking in to his bones as he’s forcefully swung back around. Arthur has the delirious thought that he hopes Eames’s grip leaves bruises. Marks that will leave his skin dark and heated for days and days.

“What the bloody hell was that back there?”

Arthur starts to feel the prickle of irritation. Patience has never been his strong suit. Besides, he needs to get Eames on that plane, needs to get this done so that he can… not move on, never that. He just knows that he has to get past this while he’s still barely holding himself together. It’s enough to finally drive him into looking Eames in the eye. “I told you I’d take care of things, so that’s what I did.”

Eames shakes his head. “Don’t pull that card with me, mate. Not with me.”

“I ensured our safety, that’s all. We needed leverage. I found it, and I used it.”

He doesn’t expect the refusal—the open rejection—that spreads across Eames’s face with each word. Maybe he should have. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Still, Arthur realizes in that moment how painfully unprepared he truly is for this.

_“Flight 502 to New York. Now boarding. 502-New York.”_

The announcement slices through the growing standoff between them and charges the air with fresh urgency, and Arthur is helpless to do anything but watch as Eames’s expression ticks over into a series of emotions: shock, denial, fear. Betrayal. Fury.

The fury wins outs, turning the lush contours of Eames’s face into planes of ice. “The _leverage_ , as you so charmingly put it, is an innocent boy that has nothing to do with this. But you’ve put him in the crosshairs anyway. And for _what?_ A job we didn’t even need?”

The words, however quiet, dig like barbs into Arthur’s heart. As they were meant to, he knows.

More than anything, Arthur just wants to fall to his knees and beg Eames to let this go. To let them forget all this and go back to how things were. Or, if that’s too impossible now, to just walk away and never look back, to put Arthur out of his misery once and for all. To let Arthur leave before this turns ugly.

He tries. He throws on every ounce of rigid indifference he possesses, but it’s a paper-thin veil instead of the mantle of defense he longs for. “We’re not talking about this here,” he urges, but Eames just crowds in close. And although it’s been a long time since he felt intimidated by all that bulky muscle, Arthur is a survivor that knows when he’s standing in front of danger.

“You threatened to have a kid tortured and murdered.” There’s true rage in Eames’s eyes, along with something darker and sharper, something that drags through Arthur’s bowels like a serrated blade and lodges in his throat. He looks into Eames’s stormy, beautiful eyes, and he finds revulsion staring back at him. “Worse yet, you made me a part of it. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have gone through with it because I saw your face. You would have let it happen. If they hadn’t let us go, you would have done it.”

He had hoped to makes this swift and bloodless. To push through the motions until it was too late to change direction, and to be thousands of miles away before the full realization sank in. But Eames is stubborn. It’s normally an endearing trait, a fiery brand that draws Arthur in with frustrated captivation. Now it just breaks his heart. Because if Eames won’t let him walk away, Arthur is going to have to push him.

He deliberately breaks out his professional mask, the impatient dickhead attitude that he knows used to rub Eames in all the wrong ways. “If it came to that, yes,” he forces himself to say it calmly, as if the words don’t shred into the last thread of hope he foolishly has tucked away into a corner of his heart.

“What the fuck, Arthur. Since when are those rules of engagement acceptable for you?”

The scorn hurts, but it also pisses him off just a little. For years, he’s done everything possible to protect Eames. Only to end up _here?_ Like this? Arthur grabs onto that anger like a comforting shield, a familiar old friend that he pulls around himself. “I will do anything necessary to keep you safe. _Anything_. You really going to act like this is news to you?” Because Arthur has never pretended to be anything other than what he is. For all his sins, he always tries to be genuine, so if Eames doesn’t know him by now…

“This?” Eames sneers. “Yes, I can honestly say _this_ catches me by surprise.” Eames punctuates the statement by physically withdrawing, putting distance between and closing himself off with every gesture of his body. Conveying more than words ever could.

All that Arthur can think to say is, “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Oh, trust me. My eyes have been wide open. I just assumed you had limits to how far you’d go. I thought I already knew what those limits were.”

Arthur blows out a frustrated breath. “Jesus Christ, Eames. Is this about Heinrich?” It was inevitable, that he’d find out. Eames has his own network and ways of ferreting out people’s secrets, and Arthur hadn’t exactly been subtle at the time. But that is something else Arthur thought Eames would have understood.

The expressions on Eames’s face flicker too quickly for him to parse. “No. Maybe.”

“Because I asked you,” Arthur leans in, voice rising despite his best efforts. “I told you to be sure. Before we—you said yes.”

“Yeah, I know I—look, you can’t just—” Eames breaks off, visibly gathering the reins on his temper before he can continue. “You can’t put that on me. I said yes to you in my bed. To meeting your parents, sharing guns and closet space. Not… this.”

_“Final boarding, flight 502-New York. Final boarding.”_

Eames’s confession hits like a bolt of lightning, a searing flash of hellfire followed by deafening silence. Arthur has to turn his eyes away from the regret on Eames’s face, the broken conviction he sees there. Eames loves him. If Arthur still had doubts about that, those are finally put to rest by witnessing how lost and hurt Eames is by all of this. But what are they supposed to do when love isn’t enough?

He tries. He has to try one more time. But he can’t look Eames in the eye, doesn’t want to see when this last-ditch effort fails. “ _This_ is _me_ , Eames. This is something that’s… that’s in me. I thought you knew that. I thought you understood.”

_I thought you accepted._

“I thought I did, too, pet. But I…” Eames trails off, shoulders dropping in a signal of defeat that sets fire to all of Arthur’s frustration.

“Bullshit,” he snaps, finding enough strength in anger to meet Eames’s gaze. “Don’t try to tell me you’re surprised. You’ve never been that naïve. It’s not like we met in a bar or some shit. You know what I am.” _And you said… you made me believe…_ “You’ve known from the start.”

“Maybe so,” Eames admits, “but I never intended to be in love with it.”

The agony that rips through him leaves him breathless, but it’s the anguish in Eames’s eyes… the guilt, confusion, and fear that he sees on Eames’s face that makes everything horribly clear.

This is hurting Eames, and that is something Arthur cannot allow. So he’ll put a stop to it.

“And can you?” he asks, as gently as he is capable of. He wants Eames to say it. Needs to hear Eames say the words. Because, even now, he’s not sure if he can do it himself.

Eames shakes his head, always so stubborn. “Don’t,” he pleads, trying to delay the inevitable, but the ragged edge in his voice only proves that Arthur needs to do this for them, quickly. So he pushes.

“Can you love me, like this? Knowing this?” _Please admit it so I don’t have to._

But Eames won’t say it, won’t strike that final blow to release them both from this suffering. And maybe he can’t, bleeding heart that he is. Maybe this is as far as Eames can bring them.

So be it, then. Arthur will do what he’s always done—he’ll take care of it.

Decision made, objective designated, everything becomes… simpler, for Arthur. He feels the numbness encroaching and reaches for it in greed. Let the pain and anger quiet down, frozen through and gradually sinking to the depths of the abyss.

And with his mind clear, he’s able to do what he needs to.

“Arthur…”

“Fine.”

This time when Eames leans in, he moves back, increasing the space between them. He can’t do this if Eames is too close. But that doesn’t make it any easier to cope when Eames begins to panic.

“Arthur.”

_“Last call for boarding, 502 to New York.”_

“We stick to the plan. For now. Rendezvous in New York.”

“Don’t do this,” Eames entreats. “Not like this. We’re not done talking.”

It’s too much like begging for Arthur to endure. Eames is too strong and proud to beg, and it twists Arthur’s stomach to witness. The cold shield around his emotions cracks under the strain. _Now_. No more delaying. It has to be now because he isn’t going to be able to hold out much longer with Eames falling apart. “We'll talk about it in New York.”

“Arthur.”

“Just get on the plane, Eames.” It takes the last dregs of his willpower to force the words out.

Eames doesn’t move, so Arthur has to be the one to take that first step away. To turn his back and put distance between them. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s on the other side of the terminal, swallowed up by an indifferent crowd.

And then he just stops.

Beside him the large windows give the perfect view of an airplane taxiing out onto the runway, launching up into the sky, and vanishing into the sunny day.

Arthur watches until there’s nothing left to see.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... that was far more difficult to write than anticipated. Hope it worked.


	3. But I Can't See New York

June

Virginia, USA

 

 

David Fuller doesn’t let himself panic.

Not anymore, anyway. Maybe once upon a time he experienced emotions like fear and concern as a normal human would, but that all went by the wayside after his years in the agency. Normal people don’t make careers out of doing the things he’s done.

And yet all that fortitude and discipline flies right out the window when Arthur-fucking-King refuses to answer his goddamned phone.

 

* * *

 

Within minutes of landing in Orlando, Arthur books himself another flight north—keep moving, keeping moving, don’t stop to think—but he doesn’t go to New York.

The world is full of options. With safe houses, contacts, and favors owed on six continents, Arthur can literally go anywhere. He chooses the one place where Eames would never look.

Virginia is annoying in the summer, humid and busy with vacationers. Arthur grits his teeth and forces himself through crowds at the first strip mall he encounters. He has no idea how long this self-exile of his is going to last, but he’s going to need some supplies if he’s going to get through even one day with his sanity intact.

Fortunately, Dave’s house is located deep in the suburbs, well away from the beaches and tourist traps, and Arthur’s scraped nerves are soothed by the predictable rows of white houses and manicured lawns.

No one is home when he arrives, so he shoots off a quick text and has his way with David’s state of the art (if insufficient) security system. It’s not his first time visiting; his steps are unerring as he bypasses the rest of the house and makes his way straight to Dave’s study at the back of the house—the only room here he’s ever been comfortable in.

He drops his meager luggage and shopping bags by the door, minus one key item. Settling into the big leather chair behind Dave’s desk, Arthur contemplates the bottle of vodka in his hands. Top-shelf stuff, no point in fooling around. And if he’s planning on getting shitfaced, he might as well do so with class.

His phone chirps with an incoming text message. Arthur silences it without checking the display and then, on second thought, turns the phone off entirely.

By now Eames will have landed in New York. Should be at Arthur’s safe house, assuming he hasn’t decided to cut his losses. Which means any time now Eames is going to realize that Arthur isn’t coming.

 

* * *

 

_At your house. Need to talk._

The text message is only ten minutes old when he first sees it, but his responding message doesn’t get a reply. Neither does the next one, nor any of the eleven phone calls he makes during the two hours it takes for him to break free of work and race home.

It doesn’t help his not-panic one bit that Annie isn’t answering her phone, either.

The door is locked and the kitchen light on when Dave gets home, which was thoughtful of the spooky bastard but does little to appease that oily sick feeling in his stomach. Annie’s car should have been in the garage; at almost six o’clock, she would have gotten home from work an hour ago. So he’s not sure whether or not it’s a good thing that her car isn’t there.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Arthur. Trained killer though he may be, Arthur is a good kid. A little too serious, a lot too self-conscious, but always a good kid. And it’s not like him to leave cryptic messages or stay out of contact.

He finds the house quiet inside. No sign of Annie or Arthur. Hunch has him moving to the open door of his study. Prudence has his hand on the butt of his gun, still holstered at his side but ready to be drawn.

He finds Arthur slumped behind his desk, contemplating a half-empty bottle of Belvedere’s finest, and it doesn’t take an intelligence agent to tell that Arthur is completely trashed.

Dave starts to rethink that whole no-panic thing. Because Arthur sober is a lethal, ruthless man that’s drawn wire-tight on the best of days. But Dave knows Arthur’s file inside and out—wrote much of it himself—so he knows that Arthur, out of his senses, is a different threat altogether.

He drops his hands to his sides and steps into the room with deliberate movements, stopping just within to lean against the door frame. Out of reach. “Arthur.” He says the name clearly and assertively, the same tone that always worked for Agent Cobb when situations with Arthur got... tricky. “Finally decided to take me up on that dinner invite?”

Arthur looks up with glassy, vacant eyes. Several tense seconds pass before a hint of recognition sparks. “Hey, Dave.”

He waits until it eventually becomes clear that no further greeting or explanation is forthcoming. Normally he’d be willing to give Arthur all the patience needed, but he needs to know. “Where’s Annie?”

Arthur gives no indication of hearing the question. He picks up the bottle and watches the contents slosh about. “Been thinking,” he muses in a voice devoid of emotion. “Remember that time you needed me to break that double-agent? In Volos?”

“Arthur—”

“Kept him sedated for two days,” Arthur drones on. “Took him into the dreams, tried all kinds of things. Didn’t work.”

“Arthur. Where is Annie?”

Arthur blinks, a parody of alertness. “Annie? She’s good. She’s fine. Left. Went to the gym. Yoga. Told her we had to talk, about work.” Arthur shrugs. “Wanted to make me a sandwich before she left. Shoulda let her, probably.”

He suddenly falls silent, motionless. Wherever his mind is at, it’s not in that room.

Dave takes the opportunity to pull out his phone and send his wife a strongly worded text. The immediate and tart reply he receives goes a long way towards reducing his anxiety. “Alright. Let’s talk.”

Arthur continues to focus his attention on the bottle in his hand. “Do you ever regret turning me into a monster?” he asks in a too-soft tone.

Ah, Jesus. “You’re not a monster, son.”

“Is that how you sleep at night?” Arthur slants an inscrutable glance at him from under his brows.

Dave is conscious of the weight of his gun, but he slowly crosses his arms across his chest, both hands visible. “It’s what I know.” He says it like a promise, one he’s spent years trying to keep.

“Ah, but you never really knew what they had me do. You didn’t go down there.”

He shakes his head. No, he didn’t go into the dreams. His job was never to make the weapon, just to use it. “Those were just dreams. They weren’t real.”

Arthur flicks a small, hollow smile. “First mistake in dreamsharing—thinking that what you do there isn’t real.”

But Dave doesn’t want to believe it’s that absolute. Because there _are_ nights when he doesn’t sleep. Too many nights. “They’re just dreams.”

“Dreams,” Arthur pulls at the word, thoughtful in the way that only drunks can be, “the inner workings of the human mind. Closest we come to touching a person’s soul. The truest sense of a man.” Arthur tips the bottle in a mocking toast.

“Dreams don’t make the man.”

This time Arthur is the one to shake his head. They’ve had this debate before, and Arthur has always ignored the point—the distinction—that Dave tries to make. Tonight looks like no exception.

Dave walks over and gently takes the bottle out of Arthur’s hand. And then, what the hell, he takes a quick swig of his own. It’s been a long day.  “Why are you here, Arthur?”

The heavy, empty look he gets in response puts chills up and down his neck. He knows that expression, saw Arthur wear it before. Once upon a time.

“I shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Arthur whispers. “I’ll get a hotel in the morning. Just tonight, though… I can’t.”

Dave risks reaching out, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. The touch is light at first—nonthreatening—but he grips just a little tighter when he feels how Arthur trembles. “No offense, kid, but I doubt you’ll be going anywhere in the morning.”

He takes another drink.

 

* * *

 

Dave’s prediction proves to be true. When Arthur wakes up to a world of pain and misery, the glaring red numbers on the bedside clock declare it to be well past morning and edging into the afternoon. Even still, it’s only the nausea and a nagging urge to piss that prevents him from rolling over and pretending he’s still asleep.

It takes three tries for him to get—and stay—upright. Years of limiting his alcohol intake means Arthur has no tolerance to speak of, and after getting impressively drunk last night his body is in full-scale revolt. The bright green walls of Dave’s guest room certainly don’t help. No mere mortal should have to look upon such a color when his stomach is wrapped around itself. But keeping his eyes closed just highlights the throbbing drumbeat in his head.

His shirt clings to him with a sweaty stickiness that makes him recoil from his own skin, and the reek of booze coming out of his pores is nothing short of embarrassing. It’s a good thing, then, that he’s waking up alone for the first time in… longer than he can think about right now. Or so he tells himself.

Arthur’s memories of going—or rather _being put_ —to bed are a haze. Some kind of argument about sleeping in his clothes, and Dave may or may not have pulled a gun on him. His bags and jacket are lumped together on the floor beside the bed. His phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent.

Guilt, habit, and a compelling, unspeakable need has him turning the phone back on. Right away the screen lights up with notifications. Over thirty missed calls and messages. The first third or so are from Dave, no doubt provoked by Arthur’s text yesterday. The rest…

Even as Arthur stares at Eames’s name on the screen, the phone comes alive with an incoming call and the opening measures of Beethoven’s _Pathétique_. A cold panic washes over him as the notes trill on, filling the room with expectation.

He doesn’t answer.

He wishes he could say that the sick feeling in his gut is due entirely to the unwise quantity of vodka he consumed last night. But he’s terrible at lying to himself.

He made a mistake.

This can’t be better—this gaping, open wound inside his chest that’s making it increasingly difficult to breath. So what if things weren’t perfect. Fairytales aren’t an end goal that people are actually supposed to aspire to. And Happily Ever After doesn’t have to be as absolute as it sounds. Happy enough for as long as possible should have been just fine because, surely, having any part of Eames is better than… this.

With the bitter clarity of hindsight, Arthur decides he should have just cancelled the job in Belfast. And then everything that happened yesterday could have been a harmless _what if_. He and Eames would have moved on to the next job, continued to live out their lives as they had been, in relative contentment.

It felt like the right choice at the time…

The timing of the job had seemed liked the perfect opportunity—a way to force things to a head and end the drawn-out suffering he’d seen in Eames’s eyes, more and more each day. So Arthur made the decision and called in an old friend.

He knew the situation wouldn’t go as far as threatened. Gibson is a dangerous man, but a predictable one, which Arthur had been relying on when he set things in action. But Eames wouldn’t have known, would have had no reason to place bets on Arthur’s gamble. Exactly what Arthur counted on when putting things in motion.

And would he have gone through with it, if needed? Absolutely. If Gibson had done anything to hurt Eames, Arthur would have killed the boy himself while the father watched.

Which brings this mess full circle.

Arthur is toxic. There’s something irreparably damaged or missing inside of him that will ruin those he holds too close. The truth of that is clearer now than ever. And even when he tries to do the right thing… the look on Eames’s face…

He had been trying to fool himself into believing he could have this, could have Eames. Could love someone and be happy together. But being with Arthur wasn’t making Eames happy. It was hurting him. And Arthur long ago decided to destroy anyone that caused Eames harm. Anyone.

No, he didn’t make a mistake. Or maybe he did, way back when on a lonely night in London or even years further back. And now he’s going to fix everything the only way he can.

Arthur knows he needs to let Eames go, but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t trust himself to see Eames, to talk to him, because he’s afraid he’ll find a way to hold on whether Eames likes it or not. And it scares him, thinking about the lengths he would go to avoid feeling like this ever again.

So he doesn’t answer the phone.

 

 

Dave isn’t sure what to expect when he knocks on the guest room door. Anything from dead silence to a bullet through the wood, he supposes, though he’d taken the precaution of searching Arthur’s belongings before leaving them in the room.

The muffled “come in” is about as pedestrian as greetings can get, so he pushes up his mental sleeves and heads in. He finds Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone in his hand and looking like something that got dragged through the gutter. “Brought you some water and ibuprofen.”

Arthur looks up and sets the phone down beside him. “Thanks.”

“I’d say don’t mention it, but I plan on mentioning this at every opportunity.”

Arthur pauses in the middle of sucking down half the glass to grunt at him. “You’re a dick.”

Dave shrugs. “It’s in my contract. Besides, you’d rather I pat you on the head and handfeed you dry toast?”

“I’m already queasy, thanks.”

Which is easy enough to believe. Dave watches as Arthur closes his eyes and sways a little to the left, face going pale and sweaty. “Do me a favor, don’t puke on the carpet.”

Arthur’s eyes snap open then narrow on him in resentment. “Did you pull your gun on me last night?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty sure you did.”

“I drew my gun, yes. But I never actually aimed it at you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Arthur drawls with thick sarcasm.

Dave just shrugs again. “You were being difficult.” He says it lightly, but he sees the shadow that goes across Arthur’s eyes and understands only too well where they come from. Poor kid never did learn to trust himself, even after all this time.

“I didn’t…” Arthur braces his elbows on his knees and stares at the glass in his hands as if he’ll find inner peace swirling around the water. “I didn’t do anything?”

Dave thinks about the night before. The way Arthur looked through him like he was a hallucination. The sleepy way he tracked Dave’s gun in its holster and kept his back to the wall, always. And how he never, at any point, uttered the one word Dave expected to hear. “Scared the living crap out of me a couple of times, especially when you decided I was somehow threatening your virtue. But, no. You barely lifted a finger. Hence the difficulty in putting you to bed.”

Arthur mulls that over, testing the truth of it. “Thanks,” this time without sarcasm.

“So, are we at the part yet where you tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

But Dave isn’t a fool, and his marriage to Annie has had its fair share of rough patches. “Arthur, what happened with Eames?” He’s already ascertained that Eames is alive and safe, confirmed that the man has been spotted several times in New York, so at least this isn’t a worst-case scenario.

The kid goes still in that preternatural way of his. Dave has to check to be sure he’s still breathing. “Eames is safe. I’m not going to let Eames be hurt anymore.”

It doesn’t answer his question. But, then, maybe it does. “Sounds like you’re fixing to do something stupid.”

Arthur looks up and smiles, slow and pained. “Already done.”

 

 

Half an hour and a hot shower later, Arthur is cleaner and steadier—after manfully suppressing the urge to vomit in the shower twice, that is. He joins Dave at the back patio table, wincing under the bright sunlight, but the fresh air does as much for his hangover as the cup of coffee in his hand. He’s not yet ready to tackle the soup and cornbread Annie set out before leaving to “let you boys finish talking spy shit” and just fiddles with his spoon while Dave tucks in with upsetting enthusiasm.

“Well, son, what’s your plan?”

Arthur rubs his hand across his mouth, a habit he’s picked up from… a habit when he’s not sure how to say what he’s about to say. Dave has always been fond of him, since the beginning, for reasons that Arthur’s never understood. This is going to be a hard sell, even if he can get Dave to listen to him. “I was thinking of coming back to the agency.”

Dave sits back in his chair and levels a no-bullshit look his way. “We took you out for a reason. In fact, it was _several_ well-considered, high-consequence reasons.”

Arthur stifles the urge to look away. “Those reasons are no longer applicable. Besides, you spent all that money and effort creating me. You really going to let that go to waste?”

Dave shares his thoughts on that argument with a heartfelt curse. “You’re more useful in your current capacity.”

“Useful. Great.”

“Hey, you wanted me to be a dick, here you go. Anytime you want to go the Dr. Phil route, just say the word.”

Arthur scoffs. “I’ll pass.”

Dave lets off a disappointed sigh and sits forward. “Look, son… I will agree that a change of scene could do you good. Why don’t you stick around, get some downtime.”

He lets his face show everything he thinks about that idea. “A vacation isn’t going to solve my issues.”

“No, but you always hang up on me when I suggest therapy.”

The quiet, melodic tones of Beethoven cut into Arthur’s smartass remark. He can’t stop himself from tensing all over even though he knows it’s transparent as hell. He pulls his phone from his pocket and silences it.

Dave watches with far too much understanding in his eyes. “Not going to answer?”

Arthur swallows back a mouthful of excuses and lies and develops a sudden interest in his soup.

“Does he at least know where you are?” But Dave must be able to answer that for himself because he’s quick to offer his two cents on the matter. “You’re an idiot.”

He can feel his forehead creasing in a scowl, which does fuck all for his headache. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s what all men say when they’ve screwed up.”

And Arthur respects Dave more than most, but he’s not exactly in the mood for this shit. “I know what I’m doing,” he snaps.

Dave gives Arthur a moment of silence to regret showing his temper before reaching over with a consoling pat on the arm. “No, you don’t,” he says in a voice that’s affectionate and wry and just a little bit sad. “But you’ll figure it out.”

He can only hope that’s one more prediction to prove true.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "I Can't See New York" by Tori Amos
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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